


Physical Therapy

by SS_Shitstorm



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/M, Gym Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Stupid gym humour, Xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8439310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SS_Shitstorm/pseuds/SS_Shitstorm
Summary: Utilizing mass conversion to frag a human in a locker room shower isn't normal. But on Synth En it is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy halloween. Have something completely irrelevant.
> 
> Smut to come in the next chapter, currently about 65% complete.

“You're doing great Raf!”

 

You yell encouragingly at a short, bespectacled kid who had just managed to cross the ¼ mile finish line on the brink of consciousness. Part of you is worried that he might, in fact, collapse, and you'd be forced to endure yet another parent teacher conference, but you push that thought to the back of your mind. Your methods might be over-enthusiastic, but they _work_ , damnit.

 

You check the sheet on your clipboard, most of which is covered in doodles you'd made of the Principle being violently murdered. You figure something significant must've changed in his life recently, because he'd not only managed to finally make the climb to the top of the rope, but had begun outpacing the other children.

 

“ _By a relatively large margin.”_ you think, noting an almost ten second difference between him and the second fastest student, who actually does collapse a foot or so before the finish line. You hastily step over the wheezing child to make your way over to Raf, who, while looking every bit as exhausted, is also positively _oozing_ with confidence.

 

“I gotta say Raf, you're doing better. A _lot_ better.” you say, letting out a whistle of disbelief.“Keep this up and you could become a regular Lance Armstrong.”

 

Raf's face, which is beet red and drenched with sweat, brightens. “Really?”

 

“Really.” you assert cheerfully, flashing him what you can only hope is a winning smile. You're not even joking, not exactly. Raf is already running circles around his taller, stronger, more athletically inclined classmates on what you can only assume is piss and vinegar.

 

Admittedly, the idea of someone as intellectually gifted as Raf acquiring nigh-superhuman physical prowess is a bit unnerving, but you firmly believe in helping every child to live up to their potential. If Raf's potential is becoming some sort of muscular computer-hacker supervillian, then so be it. You only hope that he'll remember you during his bid for world domination and possibly give you a cushy position training his legion of faceless mooks.

 

You consider Raf's recent turnaround from a shy, weak kid hardly capable of gripping the rope to a confident little squirt capable of climbing it to the ceiling one of your greatest successes as a PE teacher. That, and the one time you'd “accidentally” clocked Principle McFuckface with a dodgeball from across the room after a heated argument about fitting security camera's in the school budget.

 

It had knocked out one of his teeth. He'd threatened to fire you, but considering Jasper's woefully small number of qualified Physical Education teachers (exactly one) you'd gotten by with little more than a pay dock and what you suspect was a faculty-wide effort to park in your spot and piss in your coffee.

 

Whatever. You refused to let a setback like that dull your enthusiasm. Especially when you have the chance to turn shy, despondent children like Raf into the confident, go-getting, spring-in-their-step little squirts whom you suspect will one day be ruling the world.

 

Which is why you find it odd when one afternoon, while sipping your coffee(That you'd brought from home) you see him through the break room window _slinking_ through the parking lot, looking every bit as paranoid and squirrelly you'd worked so hard to help him overcome. You frown as you watch him tiptoe and weave through waves of students, parents, and school-buses until walking up to an ambulance.

 

An _unmarked_ ambulance.

 

You raise your eyebrow, because you watch him get picked up every day, and know for a fact that his mother drives a yellow camero. Alarms go off in the back of your head, but you tell yourself to calm down. Raf is a smart kid, he'd definitely seen those after school specials about not getting into strange vehicles. Given, an ambulance is a step up from a windowless van with FREE CANDY hastily painted on the side, but you trust him to do the right thing and tell this creep to take a hike.

 

“C'mon Raf, you're smarter than this.” you think, white knuckling your grip on your coffee mug, muscles tensed, ready to bolt out the door like a well-trained thoroughly-caffeinated doberman at the first sign of trouble

 

“WOW THANK YOU FRIEND OF JACK'S MOM FOR PICKING ME UP.” he announces loudly, throwing one last cautious glance over his shoulder before stepping in the passenger side.

 

That's it.

 

You toss your mug, go tearing out of the teachers lounge and into the parking lot in a span of about fifteen seconds. Not exactly your best record, (you'd once whittled it down to ten trying to stop Principle McDickbutts from keying your car door) but it's enough that you manage to catch the offending vehicle before it clears the parking lot.

 

“STOP RIGHT THERE CRIMINAL SCUM!”

 

You run after them, waving your arms, screeching like a banshee and probably just reinforcing the school wide rumor that you were in fact, an insane asylum escapee. But you don't care. You don't get paid slightly below minimum wage just to watch small children get abducted by driverless vehicles and _not_ intervene.

 

Raf turns his head, gives you a split second look of terror, mouths a silent “ _uh oh,”_ and dives headfirst into the cab.

 

_Shit._

 

You swear under your breath. If principle McDongmongler were here, you'd feel no remorse knocking out the rest of his teeth. Not just because footage of the kidnapping would prove invaluable during the investigation that would surely follow, but because you're pretty sure the seven or so foot jump you made from the end of the curb to the back of the vehicle, to which you're currently hanging onto for dear life as it peels out of the parking lot at 60MPH, looked _awesome._

 

“Raf!” you scream over the sound of the sirens cutting on. “I don't care what kind of candy he offered you, it's not worth it!”

 

 _You clever bastard_ you think, because if the Jasper police don't get paid enough to investigate the threatening notes in Principle Mc Twatwaffle’s handwriting pinned to your car then they're not even going to bat an eye at an ambulance tearing down the road with it's sirens on, even if it _is_ going 50 miles over the speed limit.

 

What they probably can't ignore, you hope, is an underpaid gym teacher hanging off of the bumper screaming bloody murder and trying her _damndest_ to kick in the back doors.

 

A startled yelp escapes the vehicle as you plant your foot in hard enough to dent. It sounds like it belongs to an older male. An elderly male, even.

 

“Is she _still_ back there?” snarls what you can only assume is the elderly sicko trying to make off with your student.

 

Raf pokes his head out of the passenger side window, and you open your mouth to shout another desperate plea to _stop,_ but find the wind thoroughly knocked out of you as they hit the curb making a nearly 90 degree turn onto a dirt frontage road, slamming you against the corner and rear guard.

 

 _Fuck._ You gasp in pain. You think you might've broken a rib. You realize that if you did you'd have no way to pay the resulting hospital bill due to your shitty job and even shittier employer and that almost makes you lose your resolve _and_ your deathgrip. The irony that you'd incurred the injury from an emergency vehicle is lost on you.

 

“Ratchet slow down!” Raf yells. “That's (y/n), they're my _teacher.”_

 

Ratchet, huh? That doesn't sound like your run of the mill pervert name. But then again, Raf isn't your run of the mill kid, and you find yourself wondering what exactly this faceless creep bribed a child as smart as him with. A research grant? A cadaver? Launch codes for the nuclear missile silos?

 

“They still _saw_ us!” comes the crotchety old voice from probably an equally crotchety old driver. “And she's doing a fine job _denting_ my plating!”

 

“Yeah but this one was actually _nice.”_ and right now is probably a terrible time to have your face flush and your chest swell with pride, but damnit _that was flattering. “_ I don't want them to get hurt!”

 

The dirt road they'd turned onto is taking your father and farther away from civilization, and a fresh wave of fear washes over you as you watch your hometown vanish into the distance, along with any chance you had of receiving help from law enforcement. _Shit._ But you don't let your quickly imperiling situation hamper your determination. You've got very little to lose, a dangerous amount of caffeine flowing through your veins and had just received verbal, life affirming praise from your precious cinnamon roll of a overachieving student. Who, despite his baffling decision to cooperate with his kidnapper, seems to genuinely care about your safety.

 

“Yeah, I _am_ a nice person!” you snarl at the top of your lungs. “Because I actually care about people and don't let sick old fucks drag kids out to the middle of the dessert to do _god knows what_ with them. So do your worst, grandpa, I'm not gonna let you get away with this!”

 

There's a long, extremely uncomfortable pause.

 

“Are you-” the voice begins, transitioning from panic to anger. “-Are you referring to me as an elderly paternal ancestor in a _derogatory_ manner?”

 

“What-”

 

You don't have a chance to inquire further, because the ambulance comes to a screeching stop, the force of which knocks your head against the back window, and sends you tumbling like a ragdoll onto the dirt. You swear, clutching your bleeding nose, still reeling from the impact as Raf exits the passenger side door, and you watch in absolute astonishment as the vehicle somehow folds _outwards_ in on itself in a whirlwind of movement mostly lost in your dizzied vision, and a metallic humanoid robot roughly the height of a two story house stands in it's place.

 

“Who-” and you feel some vital part of your brain short-circuit as he kneels down to your level with an earth-shaking _thud,_ brilliant cyan optics narrowed into analytical, _angry_ slits. _“_ -Are you calling _old?”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have two true loves in my life. Ratchet, and cold lady iron. I honestly have no idea why the fuck I didn't cave and do something this stupid until now.
> 
> Gratuitous mentions and usage of stupid gym culture bullshit. I'm sorry if it's not necessarily familiar to everyone, but I really just wanted to have fun with this one.
> 
> pls enjoy.

After your (thankfully minor) injuries had healed, you were made the fourth human member of team prime. Which at first, you thought was cool as _hell_ , assuming they’d made the decision based on your awesome kidnapper apprehension skills. You’d spent the next few hours during your debriefing (which was mostly just Optimus explaining how they were stuck on your planet and couldn’t leave) positively _glowing_ and filled with self-confidence and youthful spirit. That is, until Ratchet had informed you that the whole affair was to convince you to keep your mouth shut.

 

Despite your shaky introduction, you tend to get along with him pretty well. Probably because you're used to cantankerous old bastards in your line of work, and your ability to find their grumpiness endearing, rather than infuriating is probably the only reason you're still sane.

 

That, and because you know that deep down behind the grouchiness he’s actually just _tired as hell._

 

You’d arrived at the base to find him fast in recharge still standing more times than you could count. Either slumped over his desk, the medical slab, or even once hovering precariously over the switch to the ground bridge. Raf had told you it was pretty normal for him. He never slept enough, never refueled enough, and maintained a near-constant state of panic over the welfare of his teammates. It’s an honest to god miracle that he’s still functioning, let alone capable of fulfilling his duties.

 

It’s rare that you see glimpses of his actual personality slip though, but you do. Like the way his optics light up when Raf asks him to explain whatever bizarre natural-law defying problem he’s working on, or the way his shoulders sag in relief and his voice quavers when his teammates return safely _, especially_ Optimus. Or, even more rarely, when you manage to introduce him to an aspect of earth culture he actually _likes._

 

Coffee, for example.

 

“Caffeine has absolutely no measurable effect on cybertronian systems, and from what I can tell, provides minimal health benefits for humans at _best_.” he shakes his helm. “Ingesting burnt plant reproductive pods. Honestly, what _won’t_ organics consume?”

 

“If you hate it so much, then why do you take a five gallon shot of the stuff every afternoon?” you ask, grinning like an idiot as he sputters in response.

 

“It…it has a pleasing taste.”

 

It might not be easy, but if sneaking an entire palette of Arabica beans into the base is what it takes to brighten docbots day, even a little bit, then by god you’re going to do it. You honestly get off on watching people go from sluggish and antisocial to energetic and confident. There's probably some sort of cool, metaphysical energy transference reason for that you don't have the time or brainpower to analyze, but when Arcee shows up to pick you up one day because Ratchet is too busy throwing _Bulkhead_ around like a ragdoll, you can't help but feel a surge of warm, vicarious happiness for your aeon's old friend.

 

Arcee, unfortunately, doesn't seem to share your enthusiasm, and had dragged you off into the nearest supply close to quietly beg you to get both Ratchet and his endless supply of artificially acquired energy out of the base for a while.

 

“Look, I normally wouldn't ask this, but you're an adult member of your species, you seem to get along with him pretty well, and you don't have a curfew like Raf does.” she ex-vents. “I just...need him out of the base for like a cycle.”

 

“How long is a cycle?”

 

“About nine breems.”

 

“How long is nine breems?”

 

“Three thousand and six hundred nanokliks.”

 

“…Uh…”

 

“An _hour.”_

 

“Ah, okay. I knew that.” you bullshit terribly. “Other than him acting like a bull elephant going through puberty, is there any particular reason you need him out of the base right this very second?”

 

She sighs, huffs more like it, averting her optics.

 

“He...he made a pass at me.”

 

You can't help the snort that slips out, and rush to cover your mouth with your hands so fast you end up whacking yourself in the nose. _Smooth move asshole._

 

“I know that might not sound like much to you, but we're a military unit. We can't have tension like that between officers. Making a move like that is not only extremely _stupid,_ but so far out of line-” she trails off.

 

“I get it. Sorry.” you say, trying to blink back tears and pretend you hadn't just effectively clocked yourself in the face like a total klutz. “That was totally insensitive of me.”

 

She sighs. Behind her signature “I've seen some shit” million year war veteran exterior she really just looks _tired._ Having to deal with unwelcome advances from the CMO is probably the cherry on the shit sundae of her millennia long life. Honestly, you feel kind of sorry for her.

 

And if you're being really honest, also kind of _jealous._

 

 

But jealous or not, you're not the kind of person to leave a teammate in need hanging, so after politely excusing yourself from Arcee's presence to find a tissue to clean your bloody nose with, you follow the banging and shouting down to the other end of the base, until you find a large, empty room with a Bulkhead-sized hole punched out of the wall, which Bumblebee is currently using to exit in liu of a door.

 

“Docbot still in there?” you ask.

 

Bumblebee responds with a burst of frustrated, warbling static and probably the angriest expression you've ever seen contort his adorable face as he throws his servos up and storms off down the hallway.

 

You gulp audibly. If he managed to piss a sweet bot like Bumblebee off, then he probably _is_ being every bit as obnoxious as Arcee had said. But you promised to help, damnit, and you owe it to the only other female in this intergalactic sausage fest minus Miko to at least _try_ to get him outside to blow off some steam.

 

So you pick your way through the rubble, absentmindedly pick up a conveniently sized rock, briefly consider hurling it at the back of Ratchet's helm to get his attention, but think better of it when you look up to find Ratchet engrossed in the most intense shadowboxing session you've ever seen outside of a locker room in a sports movie.

 

The rock falls out of your hand as your heart turns into mush, and you wonder how anyone could consider a crotchety old bot with the spirit of youth chemically injected back into him anything other than _adorable._

 

“Hey Docbot.” you say, unable to keep the estrogen from dripping off of your voice.

 

“ _WHAT?”_

 

You wince at his sharp, irritated tone, and feel your estrogen levels drop, but make your way towards him anyways. “Um...you're looking kinda...restless.” you say awkwardly, clearing your throat.

 

“ _Now that_ is an understatement.” he scoffs, not bothering to turn his helm to acknowledge you.

 

 _Ugh._ You feel faint traces of irritation prickle at the back of your neck, but press on. “Well, uh, I figured you might wanna blow off some steam, so...this is just a suggestion, but-”

 

“Do you have a _point?”_

 

You wince again, a fresh, ill-timed wave of nervousness washing over you. “I...uh...do you wanna go to the gym with me?” you blurt out finally.

 

He stops shadowboxing. He turns his helm to you, optical ride raised, and you become painfully aware of how much that last suggestion sounded like a _date._

 

“A gymnasium?” he says after the five most painfully awkward seconds of your life.

 

“Yeah.” you say quickly utilizing ever last bit of your willpower to maintain eye contact and not stare lasers into the floor like the socially awkward teenager you'd suddenly become. “I've got a key to get to get into the school's gym. I can get us in no problem, so no one would see us. I figured we could pop over there, get our blood moving and, y'know-” you gesture towards the hole. “-Not tear up the base while everyone's recharging?”

 

Another pause.

 

“I do not have _blood_ that requires moving.” he says finally. “And I fail to see any benefit from going to such a facility.”

 

_Shit._

 

“Alright, that's cool.” you say, putting you hands up defensively to save face and pretend that you're _not_ desperately disappointed as you turn back towards the improvised door. “I get it. Someone your age probably wouldn't get a lot out of it anyways.”

 

You're stopped dead in your tracks as a giant pede plants itself directly in your path, the resulting shockwave knocking you on your ass. You're spared the need to pull yourself back to your feet as Ratchet scoops you up in his servo, holding you level with his face.

 

“What did I tell you-” he says, unnaturally green optics narrowed. “-About calling me _old?”_

 

***

 

 

You'd hardly had enough time to change your clothes and grab a water bottle before Ratchet had all but _thrown_ you into his cab mid-transformation and sped off 40 miles over the speedlimit in the direction of the school. He peeled into the parking lot at nearly a 90 degree angle and sent a an industrial dumpster flying into the football field, dynamic-entry-style when he'd reverted to root-mode feet first so he could literally hit the ground running.

 

“Hooaaah-” he said, as he'd caught you safely in his hand and you tried your damndest not to vomit.

 

 _Goddamnit._ You groan and slap your hand to your head, but you can't help the pride swelling in your chest, along with the nausea.

 

The part of you that isn't swelling with pride at his youthful spirit is legitimately fearful that kind of commotion might finally attract the cops. But you logically reassured yourself that if the police hadn't responded when Principle McCuntmuncher had done donuts on your front lawn at 3AM then they could probably sleep right through whatever riot-grade noise pollution you two could manage to stir up.

 

You'd honestly half-expected him to just punch himself a bot-sized entrance into the gym, but after giving the laughably small door a look of utter disdain you watch once again wide eyed and slack jawed as he collapsed _in_ on himself until he stands ten feet tall before you.

 

“Mass reconciliation.” he said, while ducking through the (still far too small) doorframe. “Now, are we going to exercise or are you going to stand there with your intake open until you attract flight-capable insects?”

 

You'd shut your mouth and followed him inside. He immediately pulled something out of his subspace that you, squinting, had recognized as an MP3 player and wasted no time rigging it up to the school's PA system 90’s hacker style and blasting Raf’s pg version of jock mix throughout the entire building.

 

Which is where you find yourself now. Doing warm up stretches and listening to disney music while Ratchet drags every piece of weightlifting equipment out to the middle of the room. He stops every three or so minutes to shout mildly-insulting-poorly-translated encouragement at you. You'd taken it in stride at first, but by the fifth time he stops to shout _“Lightweight baby!”_ you decide you've had enough.

 

“Did you just download every shitty fitness meme from the known internet on the ride here or what?”

 

“Naturally.” he says, as if that were a perfectly normal thing to do. “In order for both of us to get the most out this experience I deemed it necessary to familiarize myself with your planet's 'gym culture'.”

 

“So, you guys have gyms back on your home planet?”

 

“We do. Human muscular tissue is similar to protomass, in that inactivity can lead to atrophy and reduction of function. Similarly, the micro tears caused by strenuous exercise heal in a way that produces what you'd refer to as “scar tissue”, which, over time, can increase the size and appearance of protomass, sometimes to the degree that an armor upgrade is necessary.”

 

“So, wait, your armor is actually relative in size to your protomass?”

 

“That is correct.”

 

“So that means you're actually _jacked.”_ you say, whistling in disbelief.

 

He raises an optical ridge. “Jacked?”

 

“Um...” you start. “It's slang. It means-”

 

“I am well aware of what it _means_. “he says. “What I find _interesting_ is that the connotations behind a female of your species making that observation in this setting tend to involve some degree of courtship.”

 

You blink, the pause button pressed firmly in your brain before it occurs to you that he's asking you if you're _flirting_ with him.

 

“I meant it as a compliment.” you say finally, sheepishly rubbing the back of your head. There. Nice and non-committal. It's not a yes, but it's not a _no_ either.

 

He cocks his helm, but doesn't press further. “Well then. Please know that I consider you thoroughly 'jacked' as well.”

 

“Um, thanks.”

 

“Now then.” he says, switching gears with renewed zeal. “I suggest we proceed to get _torn to shreds.”_

 

“That's 'shredded', Ratchet.” you say, but he’s already turned his attention back to the freeweights. You shake your head, and begin doing pushups. You’re about fifteen reps in before an angry yell startles you into losing your balance and you careen face-first into the floor, your still injured nose narrowly avoiding the impact.

 

 _What the fuck._ you think, mind racing heart pounding, wondering if you were actively under attack by ‘cons or worse yet, had been discovered by Principle McAsscactus, but sweet relief, followed by utter confusion washes over you as you find Ratchet flinging 45 lbs plates over his shoulders in frustration.

 

“Why didn’t you warn me that the accumulative weight in this facility only adds up to two thousand pounds?!” he snarls.

 

You blink. “I'm sorry?”

 

“Do you have any _idea_ how much the average cybertronian is capable of lifting?”

 

“A lot?”

 

He huffs angrily, clearly un-amused, but he’s stopped flinging plates, at least, and stares into the adjacent wall, brow furrowed in concentration.

 

“How much do the school's primary transportation vehicles weigh?”

 

You open and close your mouth several times.

 

“Ratchet you can’t…you can’t go lift the school buses.”

 

“ _Watch_ me.”

 

“No I mean you _shouldn't_ lift the school buses.” you say, slapping a hand to your forehead. “They won't even fit through the door.”

 

He stares at you, _into_ you for a moment, somehow infinitely more intimidating at nigh-human height than his default, before finally ex-venting, shoulders slouched in resignation.

 

“You have a point.” he says. You let out a long withheld sigh of relief as you watch him make his way over to door to the locker room, and, after a moment's hesitation, _tear the entire wall out._

 

“What-” you say flatly as he then proceeds to bench-press the wall, complete with lockers, with near-perfect form “-the actual _fuck_.”

 

“ _(Be a man)_

“ _We must be swift as a coursing river-”_

 

You open your mouth to yell at him that you‘d finally had enough, your severely underutilized _teacher mode_ launched into full swing. He’s been loud, obnoxious, totally out of character and has probably caused at _least_ 3000 USD in property damage, and experience tells you that the repairs are probably coming out of the school budget in the form of your paycheck. But you find the rhetoric of stern, teacher-ly words failing you as you actually _look_ at him.

 

“ _(Be a man)_

“ _With all the force of a great typhoon-”_

 

There’s a kind of tempered ferocity in his optics, one you’d only ever seen glimpses of while mired in concentration or elbow-deep in one of his injured teammates. It’s…actually becoming of him, enhancing his perfectly aged, handsome features instead of clashing with them.

 

“ _(Be a man)_

“ _With all the strength of a raging fire-”_

 

And there it is. _Handsome._ You’ve finally admitted it. And that admission opens the Pandora’s box of every other attractive feature you‘ve been actively trying to _not_ notice. Like the way he grinds his denta, the play of protomass you can glimpse between the gaps in his plating, the w _humph_ of his cooling fans kicking on, the deep throated growl that erupts from his throat as he strains against the weight during his final repetition.

 

“ _Mysterious as the dark side of the Moon.”_

 

It’s then you realize, watching Ratchet bench press an entire wall while Mulan’s “ _I‘ll make a man out of you”_ blares over the school’s PA system, that you are, in fact, turned on as _hell._

 

“This…is… _pitiful!”_ Ratchet grunts through gritted denta as he finishes his set and casually tosses the section of wall backwards, where it impacts the other wall with a resonating _thud._

 

 _Wallception._ You’re too busy fretting about the mounting property damage bill to pat yourself on the back for your clever observation. “Um, Ratchet, you think you could tone it down a bit?”

 

“There is no amount of equipment I can use for it’s intended purpose or otherwise in this facility that will provide me with an adequate workout.” he says, ex-venting almost as hard as you’re breathing as you watch him shift to his side, roll his weight into his arms and return to his pedes in one fluid motion.

 

 _Like a panther._ You think as he turns his attention back to you and your heart rate skyrockets. _A giant, juiced up, medically trained robot panther._

 

“I don’t know what to tell you.” you say after you’ve had a moment to collect yourself. “I mean, yeah, like you said, there’s the school buses, but the chances of us getting caught are way higher out there.”

 

He frowns. “Aren’t you capable of disabling the property’s security system?”

 

“We _have_ no security system. Well, we were _supposed_ to have security cameras. Had a petition and everything. But Principle McFuckface refused to even consider it.”

 

”I thought it was McDongmongler.”

 

“It's both.” you say, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I mean, look how easy it was for us to sneak in, and no one will ever know we were here. It was even easier for Raf to slip off undetected to meet you. If someone had actually tried to kidnap him, we'd have no idea _who_ did it.”

 

“Is that so?” he says, lowering his voice to a growl. “You're telling me this person's negligence has placed Rafael's safety in jeopardy?”

 

“Uh” you stutter, because that sudden burst of paternal rage is doing things to the carnal, reptilian part of your brain that isn't helping your current situation _one bit. “_ Indirectly, yes.”

 

“And _no one_ has held him accountable for it?”

 

“I did.” you say, sighing heavily, sorely reminded of your pitiful, borderline hostile work environment. “I mean, I tried. And I got my pay docked and the entire faculty turned against me for it. I haven’t parked in my own spot in over six months. Hell Principle McCuntpunter keeps his car parked there _all the time._ He takes a _cab_ home.”

 

“And why exactly haven’t you sought retribution? Clearly you’re being treated unfairly.”

 

“Um, I filed a complaint.” you say, twiddling your thumbs, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed and humiliated at having your own docility thrown back in your face. “Actually, I’ve filed about forty-”

 

“ _Physical_ retribution.” he says, leaning down on one knee to stare into your quickly heating face. “Obviously, I do not condone violence, but when democracy fails, and in your case, it _has,_ there’s hardly any shame in invoking a threat display to protect yourself.”

 

Your jaw drops open. “You’re saying I should _intimidate them?”_

 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

 

“Ratchet, have you, I dunno, _looked_ at me?” you say, dumbfounded. “I’m about as intimidating as a wet sponge.”

 

“That's ridiculous. You are _far_ more physically powerful than your soft organic frame would suggest.”

 

And damnit that shouldn't send your heart slamming into your ribcage or sweat pooling at the back of your neck, but it _does_ , even if you're not 100% sure if it's a compliment or not. _“_ Aw, shucks, I'm nothing specia-”

 

“Which is why I want you to execute a squat.” he says, gesturing towards the power rack, where an inconsiderate, athletically inclined student had left a barbell loaded with roughly two hundred and twenty five pounds.

 

You look at Ratchet. Then at the rack. Then back at Ratchet.

 

“You’re joking, right?”

 

“Joke? Puh- _lease.”_ the medic scoffs, rolling his optics. “If I wanted to hear a joke I'd ask you what your one rep max was.”

 

You groan, curse the internet, curse gym culture, and face palm in one fell swoop.

 

“Look I’m flattered, really.“ you say. “But I mostly do track and dodgeball with the kids. The weights are for the football team. I don't think I could lift those if I tried.”

 

“I can strategically place myself behind you to offer assistance should you prove incapable of completing the lift. I believe it is known as a ‘spot.’”

 

You look back at the loaded barbell, the cold, unyielding iron judging you like the old lady at the pharmacy when you buy personal lubricant. Unassisted, and without safeties like the cheap pre-90’s deathtrap it is, you’re pretty sure it will crush your spine like an accordion.

 

But you’re not unassisted. A being capable of lifting thirteen metric tons is offering to get all up in your personal space, breathe down your neck, press his body against your back and come to your rescue if your squishy organic muscles fall short, and you find said muscles already threatening to fail just at the thought.

 

“Alright, fine.” you say finally, tearing your sweat drenched tracksuit off to reveal the low cut tank top and ass-hugging yoga shorts you _totally didn’t put on because docbot was coming with you._ Nope. Not one bit.

 

“You've removed your frame covering.” he notes. That’s not exactly the “ _Daayum girl”_ you were hoping for but hope springs eternal and you find yourself blushing furiously anyways.

 

“Yeah, we generate a lot of heat during physical activity, and we're not exactly equipped with cooling fans.” you say nervously.

 

“But you’ve yet to indulge in any physical activity.”

 

“I…uh…” you stammer.

 

He raises an optical ridge. You swear under your breath.

 

 _I am an idiot._ you tell yourself as you make up your mind, step into the rack, and position yourself under the bar. _A massive idiot._ You think as you inhale, close your eyes, and lift the bar. _A paraplegic idiot._ you think as you immediately sink to your knees under the crushing weight.

 

“Pathetic.” Ratchet growls from somewhere behind you.“You expect me to believe you can't execute a squat of a mere two hundred and twenty five pounds when your species is capable of lifting over a _thousand?”_

 

“Only SOME of us can lift that much, and that's after YEARS of training.” you whine. “I'm a goddamn P.E. teacher, not an olympic weightlifter.”

 

“Please. A far more likely explanation is that you're not _trying hard enough!_ ” he snaps. “You need to go _lower!_ Gluteal muscles to vegetative ground cover!”

 

“That's _ass to grass_ , Ratchet.” you wheeze, struggling not to crumble under the weight. “And I’m already as low as I can go.”

 

He doesn't respond immediately, which strikes you as odd, considering he'd spent the last hour either insulting your physical strength or shouting poorly translated phrases of encouragement.

 

“Er...” you begin awkwardly. “Something wrong?”

 

“It seems our species share more anatomical similarities than I initially realized.” he begins slowly, “Particularly where it _counts.”_ and you realize with dawning horror as you glance backwards, given the position you're crouched into relative to the angle his helm is tilted at, that he is, in all likelihood, referring to your ass.

 

Ratchet is checking out your ass. _Shamelessly._

 

“Um...” you start, honestly at a loss for words. “My eyes are up here?”

 

“I am well aware of the location of your optical sensors.” he replies. “In fact, I have extensive knowledge of your species' nervous system.” and _wow_ he leans in dangerously close behind you, voice having dropped an octave. “For example, did you know the human clitoris, despite it's miniscule surface area, actually encompasses the entire pelvic floor region?”

 

You nearly lose your grip on the bar, ( _shit, shit!)_ but manage to correct yourself before you tumble forwards.

 

“What...what the _hell?”_ you sputter through gritted teeth.

 

“Admittedly, I was surprised by that information too.” he continues, gripping the bar in his servo and providing just enough assistance to allow you to complete the lift. “The similarities between a femme's interfacing array and a human female's are strikingly similar.”

 

You're not entirely certain how to react to his textbook knowledge of female arousal, but considering most _human_ male's woefully ill-informed take on the subject, you find yourself fully impressed.

 

And honestly, even _more_ turned on.

 

“No I mean _what the hell?”_ you repeat as you re-rack the weight, your legs screaming protest at the simple task of holding you upright. “Are you...are you _flirting_ with me?”

 

“Do you _want_ me to be?”

 

 _That_ is the straw that breaks the camel's back, and your legs give out on you. Ratchet mercifully catches you before you careen towards the floor and manage to give yourself a concussion on top of your delirium, because this isn't happening. You didn't break into the school gym in the middle of the night to train with a juiced up robot doctor who, in addition to shamelessly ogling your ass, has transitioned to shamelessly _groping_ it _ohgodwhat._

 

“Y-y-know I don't know what the protocol is for playing grab ass on _your_ planet, but on earth we generally _ask_ someone before feeling them up.” you say, struggling to keep the blush off of your furiously flustered face.

 

“Please, I'm a physician. Do you honestly think I'd abuse my position just to 'cop a feel'?” he punctuates that with another firm squeeze, smirking at the startled yelp you give in response. _The cocky old bastard is smirking at you._

 

“Considering I just watched you tear a row of lockers out of the wall and bench press them, I honestly don't know anymore.” You admit, swallowing nervously. “I don't know what's gotten into you but lately you've been acting more...”

 

“Energetic?” he offers. “Vibrant? _Virile?”_

 

“I was gonna say “Cocky” or “Shameless” or-” _testosterone enraged bull-elephant_ “-Presumptuous, but I guess those fit the bill.”

 

He laughs, and if the grouchy old fuck laughing isn't strange enough it's the _way_ he does it is. It's low, smooth and rumbling. You could almost call it a _purr_ and holy hell a big cat comparison would be _dead on_ in how those toxic green optics have narrowed to predatory slits.

 

“Cocky, eh? “ and _fuck_ he's nestled his helm between your neck and shoulder, ex-venting hot against your skin. “ Your pupils are dilated, your heart-rate has _doubled_ , and my thermal scans indicate that despite having just completed arduous physical activity, your blood flow is being diverted almost _entirely_ to your pelvic region. Following that line of logic, one would conclude that you are, in fact, aroused. Now please, indulge me, what part of that reasoning qualifies as “cocky?”

 

You open your mouth to argue, but all that escapes is a needy hiss, because he's not just cupping your ass anymore and his other servo has snaked up the front of your shirt, living metal deliciously cold against your bare skin. He's right. You've got nothing. He might be billions of years older than you, not even of the same species, and sort of a grouchy asshole to boot. But if salty, stimulant abusing old grumps didn't turn you on you probably wouldn't be working at a high school.

 

But Ratchet, unlike your run of the mill old grump, actually looks _damn_ good for his age on _any_ planet, is equipped with encyclopedic knowledge of female arousal and seems to be currently offering you admission to the million mile high club.

 

“The part where you're assuming I'm just going to go along with it.” You say finally, throwing every shred of your concentration into keeping your shaking self upright. “We're in a _gym,_ Ratchet.”

“And?”

 

“We're in the _squat rack.”_

 

“I fail to see the problem. It's not like we're _curling_ in it.”

 

You let out an exasperated sigh that teeters out into a squeal as Ratchet laughs against your neck.

 

“I've been told that human wash racks often serve a purpose unrelated to hygiene.” he begins, mouth still hovering inches behind your ear. “And I happen to have uncovered the entrance to such a facility earlier.”

 

“When you tore the lockers off the wall?” you deadpan, or you try to because as stupid and surreal as that sounds(and _is)_ it's still _really hot damnit._

 

“Precisely. And I happen to know that you are sorely in need of a shower.”

 

Shower sex. With Ratchet. On robot steroids. In the gym. The night ahead of you is starting to sound more and more like a game of Clue. And you, like any competent detective capable of following the board game rulebook, aren’t about to come to any kind of conclusion without asking questions first.

 

“Okay, say we do decide to pursue this and start crossing wires-” you start as calmly as you can while he thumbs your bra strap. ”Is our anatomy actually compatible?”

 

“I believe I informed you earlier of the similarities between a human female’s and cybertronian femme’s interfacing arrays.”

 

“But what about males?” you say, violently fighting off a shudder as he slips a digit beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Do you have a, uh…a…”

 

“Spike.” he cuts in. “ _Yes_ , it’s roughly analogous, and _yes_ I posses one. Which is currently half-pressurized and making it _exceedingly_ difficult to concentrate.”

 

“Okay, well that answers one question.” you say, trying as hard as you can not to imagine what kind of alien heat he’s packing under his modesty panel, which, coincidentally, happens to currently be pressed against the small of your back. “So, that energon stuff you guys eat and drink and bleed, can I safely assume I’m going to come into contact with that and if so, is it toxic?”

 

“Not in the quantity you’d be exposed to. And the proper term in this context would be “transfluid“, which also contains a substantial percentage of nanites.”

 

“Neat.” you say, swallowing nervously. “So, final question. Can this stuff get me pregnant?”

 

“If you’re _that_ concerned about it I can withdraw before overload.” Maybe you can’t see his face, but you can _feel_ him roll his optics.

“Are you honestly worried about it being a possibility or are you just stalling for time?”

 

 _Both._ “You’re the one that keeps telling me how similar our species are.“ You clear your throat before continuing. “Look, I’m just trying to cover all my bases. I mean, you did break my nose and crack one of my ribs just trying to get _away_ from me.”

 

“Rest assured, I know when to be rough, and when to be _gentle.“_ and fuck _fuck_ he punctuates the end of his sentence by _nipping your ear. “_ Do you honestly think I would have suggested this activity if I thought it wasn’t safe? I _am_ a physician.”

 

You consider reminding him that pretty much nothing you’ve done tonight has been safe or even sane, and that whatever experimental drug he had coursing through his veins could very well be altering his perception, but don’t feel like spoiling the fun.

 

“Alright fine. What does my _physician_ recommend? _”_ you say, making air quotes.

 

“He recommends a complete physical, followed by a cardio workup and a hot energon injection.”

 

You want to laugh. You want to laugh your _ass_ off, and you start to, but it turns into a startled cry as she shoves the rest of his servo down your pants and grazes the side of your neck with his denta.

 

“You-” you start, breathing hitched. “-Are cheesy as _hell.”_

 

“And _you_ are thoroughly aroused.”

 

You are. You’re a goddamn shaking mess. And you’re _loving_ it.

 

 _I am a moron._ You think as you give in and fall backwards into his arms. _A colossal moron._ You think as he carries you bridal style through the freshly punched hole in the wall, through the locker rooms and into the shower. _A xenophilic, perverted moron._ You think, as he sets you down to turn on the faucet while you peel the rest of the skimpy, sweat soaked clothing off of your body.

 

You suddenly find yourself infinitely relieved that the movement to install security cameras _had_ fallen through. You can't help but entertain a cold bolt of fear at the prospect of having your tryst preserved on camera to be thrown back in your face once you'd both recovered your sanity. Or to be used in a series of PSA ads cautioning against whatever dangerous stimulant Ratchet had been shooting up with.

 

_Utilizing mass conversion to frag a human in a locker room shower isn't normal. But on Synth En it is._

 

He's not just old enough to be your grandfather, he's old enough to have genetically engineered the primordial ooze your aquatic ancestors crawled out of. You wonder if there's a an all encompassing definition for cradle robbing on a species-wide scale, and then promptly find yourself wondering why that's important. This couldn't be more wrong if you slapped on a schoolgirl outfit and called him daddy. This is perverted on a _galactic_ scale. This is-

 

“ _Hot.”_ you bite your lip as you shamelessly watch said aeons old medic lose his battle with the shower faucet, and then subsequently drive his fist into the wall, snapping the faucet, busting the water pipe, and sending a spray of warm water your way strong enough to knock you off your feet.

 

 _Fuck._ you think, once you’d spit the water out of your mouth and regained your bearings. A hot twinge of anger rises in you as yet another piece of school property falls victim to his short temper and overzealous strength, but find words failing you once more as you peer out at him from under a curtain of wet hair.

 

Steam rises from his frame as he stands under the spray, the dim glow of his biolights reflecting in the steadily pooling water and tiles, lending him an almost supernatural appearance. His optics, glowing a harsh, poisonous green are narrowed to slits and his mouth rests in a cocksure half-smirk that sends your heart slamming against your chest like a caged bear.

 

You the realize that the “sexy when wet” warning label _absolutely_ applies to robots, absolutely applies to _Ratchet,_ and begin to question your sanity at _not_ jumping on the xeno train the first chance you had.

 

“ _I would be crazy to **not** fuck him.”_ you think, forcing your shaking legs to carry you forward, to close the distance between you, the shower, and this wet, metal, _hot as hell_ space doctor, who corners you like the big cat he is and the mouse you are, so, so willing to play prey and fall under his claws.

 

“Hoooaaah.”

 

-And then he has to go and _ruin it._

 

You smack your hand against your head. You growl like an enraged housecat. But before you can open your mouth to reprimand him for killing the mood, he covers it with his.

 

He doesn't pounce. Not like you'd expected him to. “Gently attacked” describes it better, because his servos move with a calculated roughness that only a lifetime spent as a healer would instill. But his movements are not without their dominance. There's subtle force in how he tilts your chin up to level you with his mouth, pinning your tongue down with his glossa, overt force in how he pins both of your arms above your head with a single servo. Carefully, so carefully grinding his hips against yours in a way that simultaneously asks for and _demands_ surrender. And you are far too busy going limp and shaking in his arms to suggest otherwise.

 

His lips, cold and smoother than flesh find purchase at the side of your throat, venting hot and nipping in a way you're certain will leave marks. That brand of possessiveness, of _ownership_ is almost infuriating, and as lightheaded and dizzy as you are you’re determined to shake his hold just a little, to make _him_ shake, to make _him_ cry out.

 

The servo pinning your hands falls to cup your ass, to hold you between his frame and the wall and while he’s too busy watching your naked legs secure yourself around his waist you seize the opportunity and lace your fingers around his antennae, pinching softly and gliding upwards at a slight curve.’

 

Ratchet yelps, and bucks forward. _Hard._ Hard enough that the servo he used to brace himself against the wall had cracked the tiles beneath it.

 

“Shit.” you breathe, watching as the tiles fall away from the wall and shatter. “Are you okay?”

 

He tilts his helm back up to meet your eyes, blinking the water from his optics.

 

“That…” he says, voice thick with warning. “That _tickled.”_

 

You choke back a squeal, partially because he’s claimed your mouth again with enough force to bruise your lips but _mostly_ because the thought of a giant metal robot being _ticklish_ is fucking _adorable._

 

“Okay…okay.” you say, panting, as he pulls away from your lips. “In the interest of not breaking my nose again or any other ribs, maybe you should just _tell_ me where you’re sensitive.”

 

He pauses in thought.

 

“…My neck cabling qualifies as a secondary erogenous zone.” he says after a beat.

 

That’s all the permission you need and probably the only hint you’re going to get, and so you waste no time leaning into him, scraping your lips and drawing your tongue over the narrow divot between his helm and shoulder where the wires lay exposed.

 

He shudders. He gasps. But when you nip at them he actually _cries out_. It’s raw, it’s _real,_ and the face he makes during is probably the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen in your life, and you’re not going to let the night end before you’ve seen it enough times to burn it into your memory forever.

 

Somewhere between the water and your disobedient limbs you’ve both lost enough friction to maintain your position against the wall, and you find yourselves sliding to the floor. The transition is almost effortless, welcome, even, because the only thing more attractive than a wet Ratchet pinning you against the wall is a wet Ratchet pinning you against the floor. And you can see him so much better from here, his wide shoulders, broad chassis, thick arms and perfect thighs, god his _thighs_. So incredibly massive even reconciled to a third of his height. He could crush you, he could _kill_ you and yet he’s still so impossibly gentle it _hurts._

 

He steadily moves downwards, nuzzling his helm in the hollow between your neck and collarbone, the pleased, rumbling sounds he makes venting against your skin so similar to _purring._ But he pulls back just as he’s begun to knead your breast beneath his servo, staring at then with a studious intensity that immediately makes you self conscious as _hell._

 

“Um,” you start nervously. “Do…do femmes not have these or-?”

 

“They do.” he says, strumming a finger over your nipple, coaxing a pathetic, fluttering cry from you. “But these are far, far softer.”

 

You sigh in relief. “So they’re not too _alien_ to you?”

 

“On the contrary-“he continues, dipping his helm downwards and drawing his glossa over the other. ”I believe I _prefer_ them.”

 

Now is a little late to start blushing furiously, but you do, crying out and arching into his mouth. You can’t believe how dexterous his metal lips are, how cold steel could be so smooth and soft and _better_ than flesh. He rolls a nipple between his denta and you can’t stay still anymore, have to find _some way_ to move and when he brings his servo down to ease his metal digits inside you, you find it, and start to _thrash_ under him.

 

You two volley like this for a beat, you struggling wildly in the cage his frame forms around you as he holds you down and continues his ministrations. It’s become a contest by now, one you’re rapidly losing as he eases a third finger into you, curving back to press expertly into your g-spot. A faint thread of worry courses through you, because you’re already stretched out wider than you’ve ever been and you haven’t even seen his spike yet. But that worry lasts for less than a second, because he begins strumming his thumb across your clit, his rhythm perfectly, _perfectly_ in sync with the desperate itch of building orgasm and you come so suddenly and so _hard_ you almost black out.

 

“How…” you say, once you’d clawed your way kicking and screaming back from the brink of consciousness. “The _fuck_ did you do that?”

 

He chuckles, low and husky. “They don't call me cool lube hands for nothing.”

 

You swallow hard, breath still eluding you. “ I bet you had a five mile line of patients outside your clinic.”

 

“How do you think I paid my way through Iacon medical academy?“ He says, withdrawing his fingers, shimmering sticky with your arousal, which he, after a moment’s consideration, slips into his intake. He pauses, making a thoughtful, contemplative noise before withdrawing them.

 

“While I can’t currently identify the percentages, it seems to be largely water, pyridine, squalene acetic acid, lactic acid, complex alcohols and ketones.”

 

If watching Ratchet give you a chemical analysis of your own cum isn’t the most sinfully erotic thing this side of purgatory then you don’t know _what_   is.

 

 _I’m a freak._ you think as he slides back into position over you, a _lets get down to business_ expression clear on his face. _A total freak._ you think as he takes you hand with his servo and guides it over the straining, bowed out metal covering his groin and presses your fingers into a hidden seam beneath. _A freak that’s going to dislocate her hip._ You realize, as the plating falls away to reveal his painfully pressurized spike.

 

You spare a moment just to take it in, awestruck. Slate gray with biolights pulsing the same toxic green of his optics and a slight upwards curve. It’s oddly captivating. It’s absolutely unearthly in appearance.

 

It’s also bigger than the biggest dick you’ve ever seen in your _life._

 

“Uh, Ratchet?” you ask, voice shaking more from anxiety than shameless desire. “You said our species were compatible....right?”

 

“I would've thought my gratuitous knowledge of your anatomy, combined with the _mind-blowing_ overload you just experienced on account of it would've answered that question for you.”

 

“You got me there.” you admit, swallowing nervously. “But I might have some trouble...uh... interacting with _this_ particular part of your anatomy.”

 

He raises an optical ridge. “I don't see the problem. Are you not sufficiently lubricated?”

 

“Not for _that”_ you say, gesturing towards what should probably be legally classified as a _weapon._ “Christ Ratchet you're gonna _ruin_ me for human men.”

 

In hindsight, that was probably the wrong thing to say, because the sudden roar of his engines unconsciously revving is almost _deafening._ You realize that although he's a giant metal alien, he is still, in fact, very much male, and in the fashion of most males, had become excited on a carnal level at the prospect of rendering you incapable of taking another mate.

 

His expression, however, completely contradicts his body language.

 

“You have a point.” he says, ex-venting slowly. “There may in fact be a risk of injury, tearing, and possibly temporary nerve damage which may complicate your ability to experience satisfying coitus with a member of your own species. Do you still want to do this?”

 

You weigh your options. The possibility that you may never again derive satisfaction by making sweet music with another human is kind of a bummer. But size aside, you’re pretty sure you’re already ruined for other humans, considering this has been the best sex of your life and you haven’t even had _sex_ yet.

 

“What does my physician recommend?” you ask, mouth quirking into a nervous little half-smile.

 

“He recommends you carefully consider the risks and benefits of interfacing with a species ten times your size.” he says flatly.

 

“…Oh.”

 

“He also reminds you that your prospective interfacing partner has aeons of experience and the stamina of an adolescent turbo fox.” he says with a smirk hot enough to melt steel.

 

That’s it. You’re sold.

 

“I’m in.“ you say before your shaking voice can betray you. “Do it. _Wreck_ me. Plant a flag in me and claim me for Cybertron.”

 

“What?”

 

“ _Frag_ me!”

 

“Oh, I _intend_ to.”

 

He pulls back, much to your confusion, and watch as he reaches into his subspace and pulls out an unmarked container, which he opens to reveal a strange, shimmering gel.

 

“Medical grade lubricant. Water resistant, to an extent.” he explains, swiping a generous amount into his servo and coating his spike with several firm pumps where it mingles with the silvery precum pooling from the head. Again, you find yourself mesmerized just by how intricate and ethereal it looks as he once again slides into place above you, helm resting against your forehead.

 

“I’m going to start working it in.” he says, a hint of well-tempered professionalism bleeding through the strain in his voice, even now. “If the pain becomes unbearable, let me know, and I’ll stop.”

 

 _If the pain becomes unbearable._ That was probably a poor choice in words, and your heart kicks into overdrive as tendrils of panic leap from the dark albeit reasonable recesses of your mind. But the time to panic and tap out has passed. The time to lie back, bite your lip, try not to scream and fucking _take it_ is now.

 

So you watch, heart roaring and breathing hitched as he guides himself in. He goes slowly, so slowly, but he’s hardly past the head when it starts goes from stinging to _burning_ , and you go rigid beneath him, hissing in pain.

 

“Just breathe.” he says, voice ludicrously soothing as he presses further. “Long, deep breaths.”

 

You wish you knew how to do that, wish you knew how to go limp and surrender instead of stiffening and biting your lip so hard it bleeds. He’s not even _halfway there_ and you honestly don’t know how much more your body can handle.

 

“Keep your optics on me.” he says, cupping your face with his servos and brushing his thumb reassuringly across your cheek. “Just try to relax.”

 

The low, rumbling growl of his voice combined with his eerily out of place bedside manner is working, it seems, because you actually feel your eyes growing heavy, your fingers relinquishing their death hold on his shoulders, and despite every fiber of your body screaming _enough,_ you find yourself almost welcoming the impossible fullness as he hilts himself inside you.

 

“There.” he says, that same half-gorgeous-half-infuriating smirk returning to his face. “Was that so bad?”

 

You try to laugh. You really, really do, but all that comes out is a whimper as he cups the back of your head in one servo, uses the other to brace himself against the floor, and begins to move in you.

 

Something deep within you ignites, and you begin the slow journey from _too_ much to _not enough_ as he cautiously rolls his hips into you. You can’t understand how something his size can move so fluidly, how one servo can thread it’s fingers through your hair while the other one digs into the tiles beneath it so hard they shatter. The only parts of his body that aren’t hard and unyielding enough to crush you by simply _existing_ are the ones pressed against you, unconsciously shielding you from the rest of himself. And you can’t for the life of you understand what reason something this powerful and alien would have to want something as soft and giving as you are.

 

“I keep forgetting-” he begins, voice low and wavering through the haze of restrained ecstasy. “-how incredibly _warm_ you are.”

 

 _Warm_ . There’s at least one reason, one you find innately endearing. Maybe it’s just the high you’re getting from the sheer surrealism of the situation, him being a _literal_ star crossed lover and all, but you feel your heartstrings getting tugged in a terrifyingly familiar direction, one you have _no_ intention of trying to process while he’s railing you like a train. A loving, gentle train, but still a _fucking train,_ one that’s currently testing your sanity by moving at a snail’s pace.

 

“You…you can go faster.” you blurt out, once you’ve regained enough coordination to latch onto his shoulders, hook your legs behind his waist and move _with_ him.

 

“I _can…”_ he says, trailing off with a hint of uncertainty. “But I fear I may have…underestimated the size difference to some degree. I don’t want to exacerbate the chance of causing you bodily harm.”

 

 _Gee ya think?_ “Ratchet, I’m alright. It doesn’t really hurt anymore.“ you say, swallowing thickly. “I _want_ you to go faster.”

 

“I’m sorry?” he asks, raising an optical ridge. He doesn’t continue, and part of you is certain he’s just enjoying the sight of you squirming on his spike while he drops to an agonizingly slow speed.

 

“ _Please_ go faster.”

 

“I’m afraid you’re not cleared for that kind of treatment just yet.“ if he slows down anymore you might actually just reach up and _punch_ that cocky smirk off his face.

 

“You no good, pit -slagged _sonovaglitch!”_ you snarl. “You’re not afraid of hurting me, you just want me to fucking _beg_ for it.”

 

“My my, if you don’t calm down I may just have to sedate you.” he says with a coarse, rumbling laugh that’s every bit as delicious as it is _infuriating. “_ Now, I need you to state what you need with _absolute clarity :_ What do you require of your _physician?”_

 

You cry out in desperation, frustrated tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. “I need him to stop holding back and _frag me like a mechanimal!”_

 

And maybe also check out your eyes, because before the last word of that sentence is out of your mouth he drives himself into you so suddenly and so _hard_ you’re seeing _stars._

 

He’s holding up his end of the deal, pace as rapid and punishing as you asked for, still reaching so, so painfully deep within you that you almost consider asking him to slow down again, but it’s taking every iota of your concentration just to keep your head far enough above the cracked tiles and pooling water that you can _breathe._

 

He’s actually shaking now, shaking violently with the effort of restraining himself, with the effort it takes to _not_ frag you mercilessly into the floor. One wrong move and he could split you in half. He’s not just trying to not fuck you into oblivion, he’s trying not to _maul you._ That knowledge shouldn’t have you throwing back your head and letting out the neediest, filthiest version of his name to ever escape your lips, but _you can’t help yourself._

 

“Oh _Primus_ I’m close.” he snarls. “Say my name again.”

 

“ _Ratchet!”_

 

“Yes, _yes,_ just like _that!”_

 

You try, you really do, but you’d left your ability to form words back with your concern for your own safety and sanity, and his name is equal parts mewling and shouting from your sore throat. It has the same effect, nonetheless, because you can feel his frame shake and venting hitch as he nears climax.

 

“(y/n),” he snarls, breathy and savage. “I need you to overload with me.”

 

His voice alone could take you there, and you almost let it. But before the shockwaves rock through your body and relieve you of any semblance of control, you use the last remaining shred of your strength to throw your arms around his neck, pull your face flush with his helm, and bite into his neck cabling.

 

There’s no words this time, only raw, beautiful agony from his lips as he comes completely apart, and when you see his gorgeous face twist in ecstasy for the second time you break too, and allow yourself to _shatter_ against him as overload claims you both. His spike spasms as he spills himself painfully hard within you, still thrusting wildly through the aftershocks. There’s so much of it, there has to be, because he hasn’t even pulled out and already you can feel it running down your thighs.

 

But you don’t want to think about that right now You _can’t_ think about it right now, can’t think about anything other than Ratchet with his exhausted green optics gazing narrowed into your eyes, shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright, resting his helm against your forehead, blinking away the water droplets that fall from the top of his chevron, run down the side of his face and come to rest on your lips.

 

“Hooaahh.”

 

_Oh my god._

 

You reach up to punch him in the face, but with the strength literally fragged out of you all you can manage is a lazy, halfhearted sweep, a gesture he apparently finds endearing. He chuckles, low and throaty before finally collapsing to the side, taking you with him, holding your body against his. Your head lays flush against his spark chamber, and between the whirring thrum of his pulse and the steady hiss of the shower you find yourself slipping into an almost freefall-like state of afterglow.

 

That is, until he pulls out.

 

The brief flash of pain is quickly replaced by a sort of detached curiosity as you watch the silvery, faintly glowing fluid trickle down between you to mingle with the water as it lazily flows towards the drain. There’s something almost artistic about the process, invoking a sense of serenity that is immediately dispelled when you realize that _Ratchet forgot to pull out._

 

“Oh fuck me.” you start quietly, voice wavering. “ _Fuck!”_

 

Ratchet looks at you skeptically.

 

“My refractory period may have been drastically shortened, but it’s still _there.”_

 

“You forgot to pull out.” you say flatly, panic bleeding through your voice. “You said you were gonna pull out and you _didn’t pull out.”_

 

His optics go wide. He looks at you, then between you both, then back at you.

 

“Yes, it seems that I neglected to…withdraw in time…” he trails off, clearing his throat.

 

Your heart slams against your ribcage, nervous tears welling in your eyes. “Holy shit am I gonna die? Am I gonna turn into a robot? Am I gonna pop out some sort of techno-organic screeching hellspawn in nine months oh god oh _fuck-_ ”

 

” _Calm down.”_ he says, placing a form servo on your shoulder and turning you to face him. _“_ How many times do I have to tell you it’s _not toxic?_ You’re going to be _fine.”_

 

“Then why did you want to pull out to begin with?”

 

He averts his optics, a downright _sheepish_ expression coming over his face.

 

“As far as my admittedly limited research indicates, energon has a short-term effect on the human body functionally identical to alcohol. And the amount you‘ve come into contact with, while not dangerous, is enough to render you…ah… _thoroughly_ inebriated.”

 

So that’s why you spent almost a full minute watching your combined fluids go down the drain. And why the room is spinning. And also probably why you’re laughing your ass off at the idea of getting plastered on robot ejaculate.

 

He watches you with an amused smirk as your body contorts in hysteria, tears running down your cheeks, face beet red and breathless

 

“Man,” you say finally, once you’d caught your breath. “We totally should’ve done this on Principle Cockgobbler’s desk.”

 

“Any particular reason? There would have been far less maneuvering room for interfacing.”

 

You fall silent for a moment, searching your wasted brain for the easiest, most eloquent way to explain the cultural and social significance that having carnal relations on someone else’s property has on your planet.

 

“’Cause nothing says “get bent asshole” like fucking on your boss’s stuff.” you say smugly.

 

“So, a threat display?” he says, grinning. Or you think he does. Your swimming vision grows darker by the second. “Next time, In the interest of fostering a safer work environment, I would be more than happy to accommodate your request.”

 

 _Next time._ The warm, fuzzy feeling that blossoms in your chest at those two words lets you greet unconsciousness with open arms, and you smile blissfully as you pass out, stone cold drunk in his arms.

 

***

 

It’s only a few minutes later that Ratchet gets to his pedes, shakes the water from his frame, and scoops your limp, soaking wet, naked body into his arms and exits the shower. And the locker room. And the gym. Sans the wall, it’s pretty much the same room now. He casually observes the decimated building around him, and some far off part of his synth-en addled processor wonders how exactly he’s going to explain this. There probably won’t be school for days, maybe even _weeks_ while repairs were being done. Miko and Jack, he’s certain could care less. But Raf, he’d probably have to apologize to Raf, who genuinely enjoys learning here despite the completely and utter ineptitude of his human peers and their callous disregard for safety.

 

And that’s when he remembers.

 

“ _Are you telling me that this person’s negligence has placed Rafael’s safety in jeopardy?”_

 

“ _Um, indirectly, yes.”_

 

He calmly sees himself out to the parking lot, reverts to his default height with some effort (synth-en aside, he’s no spring robo-chicken) finds the parking spot labeled (y/n) and the vehicle parked diagonally therein in a impressive feat of pure human spite.

 

Slowly, carefully as not to disturb his comatose partner, he lifts his pede, and smashes the car in a spray of glass and sparks and screeching metal and then, for good measure, chucks the thoroughly pancaked vehicle into the football field, where it comes to rest behind the dumpster.

 

“ _Hooahhh!”_

 


End file.
